his silverware.
“What is it?” she asked, conscious that her blue
muslin was rumpled and she’d paid no attention to her
hair since he’d torn the bonnet from her head.
“Is this some kind of parsonage austerity diet?” He
indicated her bread. “Because I don’t think I can sit
opposite you eating dry bread every night—”
“I am travel sick,” she said.
He stood, and moved swiftly to her. “You should
have said. Do you have a fever?” His hand moved
uncertainly at his side, as if he was considering
touching it to her forehead.
For one moment, she craved the comfort of that
touch.
“Just a little nausea,” she said. “The bread settles my
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stomach.”
It was odd to be talking of her physical ailment to a
man other than her father. Yet she welcomed the
concern that creased his brow.
“You have a strange view of parsonage life,” she
observed, as he returned to his seat, “if you think we eat
dry bread.”
“I don’t number many daughters of the clergy among
my acquaintance.” He resumed eating.
Constance took a sip of water, and licked her lips.
“Do you plan to tell anyone what happened today?
About the…mistake?”
He didn’t look up. “I have no desire to be the subject
of gossip.”
“Nor do I.” She’d been overlooked her whole life; to
come to the world’s attention in the worst possible way
would be too cruel.
Now he did meet her gaze. He wiped his mouth with
a napkin, drawing her attention to the lips that had
kissed her hand. “No one anticipates an emotional
attachment between us,” he said. “Mutual respect is
what they expect to see. What they should see.”
It sounded cold to Constance, when she thought of
her parents’ loving marriage. But much better than
humiliation.
“I am most willing to show respect to you,” she said.
He gave a little jolt, as if he’d taken that for granted.
“And I you,” he replied.
It seemed they had reached a kind of truce.
It also seemed he didn’t feel compelled to say more.
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
They finished their meal, and then it was back to the
solitude of the coach.
It was nine o’clock when they drew up outside a fine
town house in Mayfair’s Berkeley Square.
By the time Constance alighted with the assistance of
the groom, the front door stood open. Marcus offered
his arm, then escorted her up the steps, into an entrance
hall where an array of servants lined up to greet them.
“Dallow,” he said to the butler, “may I present the
Countess of Spenford.” No affection in his tone, of
course, but the respect he’d promised.
“Your ladyship.” The butler bowed low to Constance.
Her own family had servants—a cook, two maids, a
manservant and an occasional gardener. But none so
grand as this personage.
Dallow introduced her to the rest of the servants. She
managed to say a word or two to each, smiling at a
young lad who barely stifled a yawn. She suspected
they were all as tired as she, having been preparing the
house for a new mistress.
“How is my mother?” Marcus asked the butler.
“I believe Lady Spenford is awake and anxious to see
your lordship. And your ladyship.”
Constance sensed Marcus was forcing himself to
slow to a genteel pace as he escorted her up the
imposing staircase. He knocked on the door of the
dowager countess’s room. It was opened by a middle-
aged maidservant.
She curtsied. “My lord.”
“Good evening, Powell. May I present the Countess
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of Spenford?”
Powell curtsied to Constance, the frankness of her
appraising gaze suggesting a servant of long standing.
“Is my mother awake?” the earl asked.
“Is that you, Marcus?” a voice called.
His face lit. “She sounds stronger.”
They passed through a small but charming sitting
room to reach the dowager’s bedroom. She sat in bed,
propped against an enormous number of pillows. Her
wrapper and cap were the most fetching Constance had
seen.
“Oh!” Helen, Lady Spenford, pressed her hands to
her cheeks. “Constance, my dear, it’s really true! You
married Marcus!”
“Yes, my lady.” Constance approached quickly, and
dropped into a curtsy.
The dowager laughed as she grasped Constance’s
hand. “I half thought I must have dreamed Marcus
telling me on Tuesday you’d agreed to be his wife. And
now here you are!”
“Mama, it’s wonderful to see you looking so well.”
Marcus leaned down to kiss her cheek.
“I do feel better,” the dowager admitted, on a note of
revelation. “Your happy news must have boosted me.
I’ve always been fond—extremely fond!—of you,
Constance, and now you’re my daughter.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Her effusiveness was
embarrassing, but Constance basked in its warmth. “Is
there anything I can do for you?”
The dowager smiled. “Two things, my dear. Call me
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
Mama, and accept my warmest welcome into our
family. Marcus, I’m persuaded a wife as gentle and
sweet as Constance will soon be dear to your heart.”
Marcus made a noncommittal sound.
Given that he’d taken